


Scenes from a Cottage

by aewrose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Courage, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves the Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley is Lusting!!, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Gardens & Gardening, Horticulture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Justice, M/M, Miracles, Prudence - Freeform, So Married, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Temperance, aziraphale is bad at gardening, so domestic it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aewrose/pseuds/aewrose
Summary: A collection of short scenes from Aziraphale and Crowley's life in the South Downs. Inspired by the Four Cardinal Virtues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	1. Prudence

**Author's Note:**

> In which Aziraphale has a brown thumb.

_prudence (noun): the quality of being prudent; cautiousness; “the ability to discern the appropriate course of action to be taken in a given situation at the appropriate time.”_

_~_

Aziraphale sighed, standing defeated on the porch in the back garden, plant mister in hand.

Crowley was going to kill him.

He had been entrusted—due to his own repeated pleas to assist with the growing botanical garden—with Crowley’s small collection of succulents. He had been given a detailed albeit short description on how to care for them.

“All you have to do is make sure they get plenty of sun, so they don’t stretch, and _don’t overwater,_ ” the demon shook his finger emphatically. “When you water, make sure it wets all the soil so it comes from the drain holes at the bottom, then wait until it’s _completely dry_ before you water again. Understand, angel?”

“Of course. Sounds easy,” he had said.

And it was easy! —For several weeks, anyway. Crowley complimented the supple fullness of the leaves, free of a single wrinkle yet firmly attached to their stem. He had even said that as the weather continued to heat up, some of Aziraphale’s succulents may even grow _flowers_ —imagine that! Flowers! Aziraphale could grow _flowers!_ He had never been able to keep _any_ sort of plant alive short of a miracle, and now to be _tempted_ by his own lovely, wonderful _flowers!_

However, the angel had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew.

Anathema had told him, at one of their semi-regular meetings for brunch, that you could turn the edges of the leaves a lovely shade of red by “stressing” the plant, even pulling up some _lovely_ photos on her cellular telephone. He had asked her if she wouldn’t mind kindly looking up _how, exactly_ , to achieve this coloring, to which she said “Well, this page says to give them more sunlight, and water them less.”

Of course, Aziraphale was nothing if not a rule follower, and did _exactly_ what Anathema had said the experts recommended—more sunlight, less water. Possibly to a fault.

The soil in the pots was bone dry, the once-supple leaves of the plants wrinkling up and _falling off,_ browning on the edges, cracking under the touch of even the tips of soft angelic fingers. And alas, it was time to “face the music,” as his lifelong partner would say.

“Crowley?” The angel began to worry the ring on his finger, twisting and twirling it around his pinky. “Will you come out here for a moment?”

The demon sauntered out the door, raising his eyebrows, questioning. His red hair was piled in a bun at the back of his head, haphazard but effortlessly fashionable.

“I, um,” the angel pointed to the withering selection of cacti, too ashamed to speak further on the state of the vegetation.

“Oh,” Crowley crouched, eye level with the _echeveria,_ brow furrowing, thin fingers gently touching the perishing plant. “What happened?”

“I, er, well, I wanted red leaves,” he muttered, voice growing soft as Crowley rose, slowly, menacingly, back turned to the angel. He pressed his lips together, grimacing, waiting anxiously for whatever was coming.

Crowley took a deep breath, shoulders rising, then falling. He cracked his neck, head tilting to one side then the other, straightening to his full formidable height before exploding in a shower of epithets. Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly, turning his head away from the noise.

“You’re an _idiot,_ an absolute _nob,_ and you should _FEEL BAD!_ You’re _WORTHLESS!_ You _DISGUST_ me, and I wish I had _NEVER_ brought you _HOME!_ ”

Aziraphale felt this was really a bit too far, I mean after all it was just a plant, and this seemed very harsh seeing as they had known each other for so long—a tear began to threaten appearing at the corner of his eye—after all, he had begun to believe that Crowley really _did_ love him, and now—

“ _Grow. BETTER!”_

The demonic horticulturalist turned on his heel, smiling. “All done, angel. Next time, it may be prudent to let me know before you nearly kill them.” He strode into the cottage, gently shutting the door behind him, any and all malice in his serpentine body drained.

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

The succulents were back to their healthy state, leaves arranged in flawless rosettes, the likes of which he had not seen since the Garden.

And best of all?

The very tips of the tender leaves were beginning, before his eyes, to turn ever so slightly…

Red.

_Fin._


	2. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale keep a delicate balance.

_justice (noun): the quality of being fair and reasonable; fairness; “the most extensive and most important virtue”_

~

Aziraphale turned the page of the aged book in his lap, seated on the cushy loveseat Crowley had insisted upon bringing from the bookshop. His eyes danced over the yellowing pages, relaying tales of times long past, long-forgotten words, ancient oration. The angel eagerly licked his lips, brimming with joy over being the first person in years— _centuries,_ perhaps—to drink up the knowledge contained within.

Ah, yes. Drink.

He reached for his mug on the side table, unable to tear his gaze away from the tome. His hand brushed the corner of the vessel—he had meant to grasp the winged handle, but had instead, in his zeal, accidentally slapped the porcelain rim; hot, rich, milky cocoa coming to the edge of the cup as it slipped from its coaster, sweet-smelling elixir spilling out, oh _no—_

A choked gasp burst from the angel’s lips as Crowley walked through the small living room, raising his hand to snap his fingers, not even breaking stride on his way to the garden.

The mug was returned to its coaster, once half-full, now just full enough that it would not spill over; the precious volume in Aziraphale’s lap untouched by even a drop of the sugary beverage.

He closed his mouth (having fallen open in shock at the near _catastrophe_ he had just witnessed) and raised his eyes over his glasses, a coy smile flitting across his face as he watched the demon saunter out the back door, not even glancing back to the angel to watch for his reaction. He turned to the next page, and— _carefully_ this time—took a sip from his mug.

Well, then.

The ball was now in his court.

~

Crowley could have _sworn_ it was there yesterday. He scratched his head, standing bewildered in the gravel driveway of the cottage.

After returning from a trip to the flat in Mayfair—Aziraphale had _finally_ relented, allowing him to bring the enormous throne chair home, and getting it inside the Bentley was just a _minor_ miracle, really—he had noticed a long, white, _hideous, scratch_ on his beloved car. He had been so angry at the time that he stomped into the cottage without even touching the accursed mark, thoroughly confounding Aziraphale with swear words even _he_ wasn’t sure how he knew. After a good night’s sleep, he had felt more optimistic, and went out determined to diagnose the scratch and whether it could be buffed out or would require a miracle. Whatever the answer, no price was too great for the Bentley.

Then to tie his hair back, roll up his sleeves, put on his work pants, and find _nothing?_ Not even a _hint_ of a scratch, and the century-old car shining like the day she was manufactured?

He opened the door. The, er, _reduced in size_ throne chair lay across the back seats, exactly where Crowley had left it. The upholstery smelled like fresh leather, every fingerprint on the steering wheel and radio absent, even the _ignition_ was free of key scratches. Not a single molecule of dust rested on the dash, and the dirt that always seemed to permeate the loops of the carpeted floor mats (short of a miracle) was curiously missing.

Short of a _miracle._

Ngk.

The question was not _who,_ or _how,_ but _when._ The demon and the angel had spent all the time since Crowley had come home _together._ When did he have a chance to _do_ the miracle?

No matter. Such a good angel deserved a reward for looking after his partner’s most prized possession. The only remaining question was how to make the two equal.

~

“Hey, angel?” The front door’s creaking sound mysteriously silenced, halfway through its “oil me” cry.

“Yes, dear?”

“Did you…fix up the Bentley?”

The angel turned to look over his shoulder, standing at the kitchen counter cutting a peach, half-smiling as his gaze met shiny black glass out of the corner of his eye. “Hm. I don’t recall doing much of _anything_ involving the Bentley in recent days,” he returned his focus to the sweet snack. “Why do you ask?”

A smudge Crowley had intended to wipe from his glasses really must have never been there in the first place, slit pupils unable to find it again.

“Oh, no reason,” Crowley’s serpentine body sidled up behind the angel, seeing through the teasing ruse. “Just thought it was strange that the scratch was gone, and perhaps I would want to repay whoever might have…assissssted,” he hissed into golden curls, the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck standing up from the sensation. The peach was suddenly _so_ juicy, its pit a lot smaller than the angel might have previously thought—and the fruit so tender you would almost think it _fell apart_ into thin slices before even _touching_ the paring knife.

“Well, whoever gets rewarded will be very lucky indeed, won’t they?” A lock of hair about to fall into Crowley’s eyes pulled itself back into the bun.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale’s mug, sitting on the side table next to another weathered book, filled itself with piping hot tea. “After all, it’s only _fair_.”  
  


_ Fin. _


	3. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley holds back.

_temperance (noun): the practice of self-control, abstention, discretion, and moderation of desire; also known as “restraint.”_

_ ~ _

Hell was not exactly a friendly place to be.

I mean, it was kind of their _thing,_ really, down in Hell, to be nasty, rude, and angry all the time, hurting each other for no reason, feeding each other to rats and dogs for _fun,_ pushing and shoving in that _literally_ godforsaken hallway, a well-placed elbow to the ribs knocking the wind out of you when you least expected it.

But _this?_

Ngk.

Not even _Hell_ was so cruel as this.

Oh, _no_. _This_ form of torture was something else _entirely._ Sharing a damned—er, _sorry, blessed_ —domicile with a soft, tender-hearted _bastard_ of an angel, peering at that little upturned nose over a book, fluffy white-gold curls brushing your face accidentally when he nods off (claiming, of course, that he doesn’t _need_ to sleep, although he does enjoy a nap from time to time), yellow serpentine eyes trying desperately to tug themselves away from the curve of his perfectly ample bottom as he walks to the kitchen for another mug of cocoa or a slice of cake.

Beelzebub _themself_ could only _dream_ of being so wicked.

Gentle touches of soft fingers brushing a lock of red hair out of your eyes.

A choked cry of “Slow _down,_ Crowley!” escaping flushed lips when you drive—well, when you drive at _all._

And—oh, _Satan—_ what a demon might _do_ for a sweet, sweet _glimpse_ past the ubiquitous bow tie, behind the stark white buttons; a _peek_ at the hint of chest hair, the rolls of soft pink skin cultivated by six thousand years of hedonistic indulgence interrupted by only the most _wonderful_ belly button one might ever see in their entire _life_ , to put their _corporeal hands all over the gentle swell of the perfect belly_ —

“Crowley? Are you _quite_ alright?”

A pair of eyes—eyes you could practically dive into, _glacier blue_ —ripped Crowley out of his inner monologue.

“I’m fine. Tickety-boo. Why?”

“Well, it’s just… you were, um, as you say, ‘zoning out.’”

“Oh, you know. Just thinking.”

“I was thinking myself, actually; I’ve just been reading, and pondering how utterly _fascinating_ Saint Augustine’s idea of time is, for a mortal, and—“

Aziraphale started up what was certain to be a _long_ comment on Saint Whatever’s idea of something-or-other, he could go for _hours_ on stuff like this, a perfect opportunity for Crowley to get lost in the eye crinkles and rosy cheeks. He needed only to nod, saying “Ah, I see,” and “Fascinating,” every so often, and the angel would be spurred on.

He had always felt this way, since the angel admitted to him that he gave the flaming sword away, a thousand lifetimes ago. It had only gotten worse as time went on, when fleeting meetings by chance in Roman restaurants became Bentley rides and lunches at the Ritz.

And then the Bentley rides and lunches at the Ritz became sharing a whole _house_ (they technically shared a bed, also, but since Aziraphale didn’t sleep at night, it was Crowley’s bed in practice) and enjoying home-cooked meals together.

 _That_ was when the real torture began.

It took all the self-control Crowley had—an odd thing for a demon to have, really—to not be kissing every heavenly centimetre of those tempting lips every second of every day. It was taking all the self-control he had right _now_ to not halt the angel’s monologue with the kind of kiss where you can hear your teeth clashing together, tongues _aching_ to _dance_ with each other, oh _Satan_ help him, Aziraphale must taste so _sweet—_

Interrupted once again, this time by the sensation of the softest thing he had ever touched gracing his forehead, blood rising to cheeks and ears with the realization of what just happened.

Aziraphale’s lips broke contact with Crowley’s forehead as he pulled back, blushing also, smiling a loving smile the likes of which Crowley hadn’t seen since 1941.

“You’re such a good listener, my dear,” said the angel, standing up from the loveseat to retrieve a cookie from the kitchen.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Crowley sighed, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

It paid off to be restrained.

_Fin._


	4. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley overcome their fears.

_courage (noun): the ability to do something that frightens one; also termed fortitude, forbearance, strength, endurance, and the ability to confront fear, uncertainty, and intimidation._

~

“I _know_ it’s unlikely, but what if—“

“Angel, if you keep on ‘what-if’-ing you’re going to drive yourself insane. And me, you’ll drive me insane too.”

“But, we should be _prepared!_ For, well, you know,”

“I know _what?_ ” the demon poked his head out of the covers. It was the middle of the night, and Aziraphale was standing in the doorway, glasses pushed up onto white-gold curls that were sticking out every which way, uncharacteristically unkempt for the angel. “Can we _please_ talk about this tomorrow?”

Aziraphale started wringing his hands, frantically worrying the ring on his finger. “I’m just… oh, I’m _terribly_ worried, Crowley.”

Crowley sighed, sitting up out of the bed, bare chest and freckle-kissed shoulders emerging from the comforting depths of dark grey sheets. He patted the space next to him on the bed, tilting his head in a gesture he hoped was communicating “get over here, you lovely, wonderful, _bastard_.” The angel plunked himself down unceremoniously onto the fluffy comforter, lips pressed together, shoulders slumping.

“Look, angel. We can’t—“ he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t live out the rest of our whole lives wondering when the hammer will come down.”

“I know. But you simply _can’t_ tell me to just—go back to how things were before.”

Crowley smirked. They sat there silently, thinking. He wasn’t wrong, after all. They were in purgatory, for lack of a better term. They had—for now—bested the powers of heaven and of hell, joining the growing ranks of earth. The world had changed—though the vast, vast majority of the people living on it had not noticed—and there was no going back. How were they to know what was to come next? They had lived their whole lives to this point knowing, in the back of their minds, that _someday_ it all would end, spectacularly and with great fanfare, and then when that actually _came,_ it… didn’t. And it was, for the most part, thanks to them. They had stopped it, _together._

_Together._

“Aye, there’s the rub,” as Hamlet would say. (Crowley would maintain that he _still_ preferred the funny ones.)

Aziraphale had been… contemplating, as of late, this _togetherness._ It had brought him great joy, and yet… he could not shake the feeling that _eventually_ this would all end, when Heaven or Hell decided they had had _enough_ with this _foolishness_ and they were _really_ going to end things once and for all, angel and demon be buggered. He had always been a worrier, hedonistic joys of earthly life being mere distractions from the thoughts buzzing around that never quieted. It was almost easier, before he and Crowley were so… _linked._ He had less to lose. Now? Oh, _now._ Now this was _all._ This was _everything._ This _life,_ where they lived here—together—on earth as though they were _people,_ living like they would _die_ someday, when the alternative was unthinkable. “For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause.” “Shuffling off this mortal coil” was a preferable alternative to _separation_ , an eternity in their questionably corporeal spaces knowing the other is there and not able to reach them.

And yet Aziraphale couldn’t close his mind to the thought, as Crowley lay there next to him, in the bed that they shared (in name only, Aziraphale _still_ refused to sleep), that maybe the demon would be better off not… with him. Maybe then Crowley could enjoy his little part of the world without Aziraphale’s meddling, and avoid the meddling of Heaven and Hell in the process. A tear threatened to fall from the angel’s eye as his train of thought sped up, uncontrolled, hurtling toward a bridge that was most definitely out.

“Aziraphale, I—“

“Crowley, I’ve been thinking—Oh,”

After all the silence, they had interrupted each other.

“You go first,” said Aziraphale, politely as ever. Maybe Crowley would be thinking the same as him, and spare him from having to confront his fear.

Crowley laughed, looking intently at the covers. His laugh had a certain quality to it— _nervousness? apprehension, maybe?—_ whatever it was, it was highly unusual. Aziraphale steeled himself for what he knew was coming. “I think I’m moving out,” or “I’m not sure about all thissss,” with the telltale hiss of Crowley saying something he didn’t want to say, at all.

“Angel, I—“ he swallowed something in his throat, an unwelcome emotion threatening to rise—“Well, I don’t know how to say this. It feels so, I don’t know. Wrong? Right? But I’m sure of it, even still,”

Aziraphale agreed, nodding silently. It felt so wrong, having to leave this all behind. He really had enjoyed it, while it lasted. But at the same time, protecting Crowley was the right thing to do.

“Aziraphale, will you marry me?”

Aziraphale gasped. His train of thought came to a sudden, screeching halt, thankfully just before falling off the cliff it was heading toward. That was _not_ what he had expected. It appeared the momentum of his train had transferred itself to Crowley, as the demon exploded in a wholly unnecessary explanation, cheeks and nose reddening as he spoke.

“I mean, I don’t have a ring or anything, and I know what we have _now_ is-is special, sure, but I can’t help but feel like I want something to… express it. Our, um, _relationship,_ I mean.”

Aziraphale’s jaw hung open, still in shock. He lost the battle with his corporation, the battleground being his tear ducts. “Crowley, I—you—“

Crowley waved his hand flippantly, turning away from the angel. “No, it’s fine. I know, I go too fast, and I’m sorry. Just… forget I said anything.”

They sat silently again for a moment, Crowley’s jaw clenching, Aziraphale still furiously processing what his partner had just said.

“Crowley, of _course_ I will,” he smiled, eyes still pouring out hot tears, apparently not getting the memo that he was happy now, they could stop; instead making the angel cry in earnest. He haphazardly wiped them away with his sleeve. “And here I was, thinking maybe you would be happier _without_ me—“

He was interrupted by a gentle, tender kiss; the touch of thin bony hands on his cheek, wet with saline water.

“Angel, _you’re_ the only reason I wanted to keep this stupid world in the first place,” Crowley whispered, against Aziraphale’s still-trembling lips. “It’s all bollocks except the parts with you in them.”

Aziraphale touched his forehead to Crowley’s. “Oh, Gabriel will be absolutely _incensed,_ ” he laughed.

“And we’ll let him be,” said Crowley, mischievously. “He can’t intimidate us anymore. Not when we’re ballsy enough to get _married,_ of all things. None of them can.”

The angel released his breath, and with it, all the tension he had been unknowingly holding. “They can’t scare me,” he said. “They’ll have my fiancé to deal with.”

Crowley gave the man another kiss before burrowing back into the covers of the bed.

“You know, I was scared you’d say no.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, taking his rightful place under the covers, clicking off the light, glasses lying on the nightstand. “It was very courageous of you to ask.”

Crowley hummed in response, already falling back to sleep, exhausted by the release of tension and use of mental energy.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed Scenes from a Cottage as much as I enjoyed writing it. -R


End file.
